


Face the Music

by December21st



Category: Castle
Genre: Castleland, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:56:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December21st/pseuds/December21st
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music! Mayhem! Murder! (Co-written with Xleste.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Face the Music

**Author's Note:**

> Xleste is the co-author of this story; and she deserves full credit for her work. However, AO3 won't let me share credit with someone who doesn't have an account, so her part is relegated to this note. Every kudo and every compliment rightfully belong to her as well.
> 
> Response to the challenge "Write with Me ... Again ..." at LiveJournal's Castleland. The challenge was to co-write a short fic based on the prompt "music." Written in 2011.

“Neo-Classical synthesizer jazz bands covering Death Metal.”

“You made that up.”

“Of course I did. But if there were such a thing, would you hate it?”

“I don’t know, Castle, I’d have to listen to it first.”

“I simply don’t believe that there isn’t a single genre of music that you don’t like.”

“I simply won’t dispute your capacity for denial and delusion.”

“What about one-man bagpipe …” Castle pauses as Beckett picks up her ringing phone, silencing him with a single finger placed across his pursed lips. She leaves the finger there as she talks and he is content to leave her finger pressed against his face as he watches her agree with the phone, jotting down information on a notepad that he interprets as an address somewhere in the southern Pacific Ocean, hopefully closer to Hawaii than R’leyh. 

Castle nearly bounces out of his seat, reaching for her jacket as well as his own. “Where to?” 

She moves away from him, flipping her hair loose of her coat collar in his face and doesn’t notice his brief pause. “We’re heading to Westside Theater on 43rd. Her day job was a bit part in a musical. ”

“I know that theater! About ten years ago, mother was a singing, dancing housekeeper there three days a week, and twice on Wednesdays. Better not tell her about this or she’ll be helping us before you can say “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

___

When they arrive at the theater, the mood on the set is a somber contrast to the soloist offstage audibly belting out lyrics of “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair”. The corner of Beckett’s mouth turns up. “As silly as the lyrics are, I can definitely relate.”

“There’s no shampoo made that can get rid of me!” Castle informs her cheerily, surveying the stage.

Beckett gives him a sardonic look. “Oh, I know perfectly well what to do with someone as dirty as you. It involves a nice, long ...” she lingers on the word, just long enough to make Castle swallow “... cold shower.” 

The stage is littered with two fake palm trees, a fake fir tree bearing a sign saying “this is a palm tree”, and the entrance to a Polynesian-style hut leads offstage. Nearly a dozen people are milling around on the stage, looking lost and speaking in hushed voices.

Castle looks curiously at a panel of buttons and grazes one, and set lighting shifts from daytime to night. Abashed, he tucks his hands behind his back and looks back at the people on stage, all now bathed in an almost eerie blue light. They’re all looking at him now, and he mutters something to Beckett about pod people.

Beckett rolls with it. “Now that we have everyone’s attention. I’m Detective Beckett with the NYPD. We’d like to speak to the director?” While the director ambles forward, Castle gets waylaid before he can move in on the conversation. 

“Oh Richard! You’ve grown up so.” A woman old enough to be his mother - and likely a contemporary of Martha’s - steps up to Richard and warmly busses him on the cheek, lingering in a distinctly unmaternal way. “Is that your girlfriend?” She eyes Beckett who is listening to the director intently a few feet away.

“Sylvia,” Castle greets her, taking a not-so-subtle step back. “So good to see you again. No, that’s Detective Kate Beckett with the NYPD.”

“I confess everything!” Sylvia Breedlove exclaims,throwing her arms open theatrically. “That darling little car of mine just yearns to be let off her leash every now and then, and parking in the theater district is just beastly.”

“We’re not here about parking tickets, Sylvia. We’re here about Annie Keigel.” Castle rebukes her none too gently.

“Ah, yes, of course. Poor Annie. It’s all the director’s fault she’s dead, you know. He mentioned …” Sylvia’s voice lowers to a whisper “... the _Scottish Play_ at rehearsal yesterday.” 

“Did you know Annie well?”

“Of course, Richard, she was my understudy. She played …” Sylvia waves her hand dismissively, “one of the lesser nurses. I’m afraid I don’t remember which one. I had hoped that the producers would have picked someone with a bit more experience and talent as my understudy, but I suppose they had to make do with limited resources they had. I am so much easier to work with than some of the divas you hear about. By the way, Richard, how is your mother? I hear she’s gotten some very choice supporting roles as _older_ characters.”

“Haven’t you and mother always played the same age range, Sylvia?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Although we’ve sometimes auditioned for the same role, Martha has a certain maturity that I’ve never been able to match. I’m sorry, Richard, I would love to stay and chat longer, but I simply must talk to the producers about my replacement understudy. Without my help, they’ll pick someone completely unsuitable!”

“Oh, of course...the show must go on.” He smiles after her as she flutters off.

As Castle is sidelined by Sylvia Breedlove, Beckett introduces herself to the director. He’s younger than she was expecting, dressed in a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts and sandals.

“John Flemming. I’m the director of this madhouse. Is this about Annie Keigel?”

“Yes, it is. What can you tell me about her?”

“Annie was talented and ambitious. I expected her to go far in this business. Her death is a great loss to the community.”

“Did she have any enemies?”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me say that she was talented and ambitious. There are only so many parts in this town, and Annie got every one that she set her sights on. That means that the twenty or fifty or two hundred other actresses that wanted that part didn’t get it. She was building an impressive resume, too.”

“Was there anyone in particular that she didn’t get along with?”

“Not that I know of. I mean, Annie was good enough so that she didn’t have to resort to some of the backstabbing techniques that I’ve seen other girls use. As far as I know, she got along with the rest of the cast. The usual minor squabbles about lighting and blocking and costumes. You have no idea how self-absorbed these creative types can be.”

Beckett glances towards Castle, still talking to the woman making wild gestures with her hands. “Oh I have a pretty good inkling.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, detective, how did Annie die?”

“As far as we can tell, she let someone into her apartment and they shot her several times. The neighbors heard the gunfire and called the police, but by the time they arrived, Annie was dead and the murderer was gone.” Beckett pauses to watch his reaction, and then continues speculatively, “You said she seemed above some of the backstabbing that other girls did?”

“Nothing on this set - that I’m aware of, anyhow - but the usual tropes. Laxatives substituted for chocolate, props superglued to tables, or to actors, embarrassing stories both real and invented leaked to the press, wardrobe malfunctions, that sort of thing.”

“Ever anything more serious?”

“Well, you always hear stories, but just because an actress back in the seventies was stabbed to death on stage when a prop knife got swapped for a real knife doesn’t mean that it was anything more than a tragic accident.”

“But nothing like that in this production?”

“Annie lost her cell phone about a week ago. Found it again the next day on her makeup table. She swore she looked there. Pete Ekles tripped over one of the palm trees and destroyed it, and Sylvia said he did it to make her look bad, but we’re getting a replacement by opening night and Pete’s really the one that looks bad with all the makeup he has to put on that shiner he gave himself.” He rolls his eyes in the direction of the older actress where she’s got Castle cornered and mutters, “If she’s not careful, we’ll be getting a replacement for her by opening night too...”

Beckett glances at her phone as it starts ringing. “Thank you, Mr. Flemming. We’ll be in touch. Please let us know if you think of anything that might help.” She answers her phone with one hand while giving him her business card with the other.

While Beckett’s on the phone, Castle approaches her, watching the retreating figure of Mr. Flemming approach the stage and start giving instructions to the cast and crew loitering there.

Beckett rubs her temples as another rousing chorus starts. “The show must go on...” she mutters.

“Headache?” He casually reaches a hand up massage the base of her neck, half surprised when she doesn’t push him away. 

“Yeah.” They fall into a companionable silence before it starts to feel a little too companionable to her, and she rises, his hand falling away in a brief slide down her back. “I just talked to her agent. Annie had a side job as a singing telegram girl too.” 

“The victim was a singing telegram girl?” Castle’s eyes widen with excitement. “I didn’t know they still had those! Maybe she went to the wrong address and saw something she shouldn’t have. Or maybe she was delivering more than just telegrams, and it was a drug deal gone wrong! Or maybe someone wanted to keep her from revealing the contents of a confidential telegram!”

“Yes, because so many people send confidential information by singing telegram,” Beckett responds dryly. “Why don’t we find out if she had a jealous boyfriend before we start questioning the cast of ‘Clue’?”

___

The singing telegram office isn’t quite the madcap impromptu musical number that Castle was hoping for. Instead of Willy Wonka, they’re greeted by a pudgy woman named Bernice with a hopelessly cluttered office, including two computers and at least three telephones. After a certain amount of paperwork wrangling, Bernice provides them with information on Annie’s “performances” over the last three weeks.

Bernice peers up at the detective and her sidekick over horn-rimmed glasses more intently as they start to leave. She has the dour visage of Eeyore until the light of recognition glimmers in her eyes. “You’re Richard Castle! Wait...can I have your autograph?” Beckett chokes as she watches his cheery smile dim almost imperceptibly - a watt at most - as an ample buxom is presented for signing. “Castle, when you’re done, see you outside.” She indicates her phone with a too-wide smile. “Ryan might have a lead....” 

By the time Castle rejoins Beckett, she’s pocketing her phone. He shudders briefly, his face contorting comically. “Thank you so much for that.”

“Any time,” Beckett smiles agreeably.

“Any time? Because I would be more than happy to sign anything that you’d care to show me.” Castle lets his gaze drift hopefully down just below her conservative neckline.

“In your dreams, Castle.”

“Adding mind reading to your repertoire, Detective?”

Beckett opens her mouth, pauses a moment, and says “Ryan was talking to one of the other girls in the show. She said that Annie was trying out for something big, a part that another actress had already landed but that Annie was trying to get the part out from under her.”

“What was the part?”

“She didn’t know. Said it was secret. But, according to the witness, Annie said that it would blow her socks off.”

__

It’s late at the precinct and the case has weak suspects, no further leads, and unwanted publicity in the newspaper. Beckett clears off her desk, dropping the morning’s Times into the recycling bin next to it. She half-smiles as she uncovers one of Castle’s doodles and sets it aside before looking over at him. “You should go home and talk to your daughter, Castle. She has a knack for asking some jarring question that makes you get some new incredible insight into a case.” 

He smiles at her. “She’s studying at a friend’s tonight. It’s just you and me, kinda like... Rogers and Astaire, Holmes and Watson, Gilbert and Sullivan, Dave and Maddie...”

She breaks in, brows raised dubiously. “From _Moonlighting_?...That TV show was annoying. It took them forever to get together...”

“It didn’t actually. They hooked up at the end of Season Three, after only about forty episodes. It’s only because the actors were barely ever on screen at the same time in the following season that people stopped watching the show.”

Beckett gives him a look, a wordless “oh really” that speaks volumes.

“What? I researched it once. I think that if two people are mutually attracted to each other, then eventually they need to stop beating around the bush and act on that attraction. Wouldn’t you agree, detective?”

“Not necessarily,” she counters. “Sometimes attraction can be misleading. I think there needs to be more.”

“Eventually, yes, if you’re going to do anything more than play a few duets together. But you shouldn’t spend so much time worrying about whether you’ll be interesting to each other five years from now that you ignore what you’re feeling right now. You just have to trust that you’ll both continue to be the same people even after you make beautiful music together.”

“I think trust is a foundation, that you’re real to someone, not just a fictional character.” Her eyes widen abruptly. “Who was Annie just a story to?”

The frustrated look on his face gives way to widened eyes as his mind synchs with hers. “Maybe whoever killed her didn’t think of her as a person, but as a bit part in their own personal drama. Death of supporting character closes Act 2, curtain!”

“All the world’s a stage, all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and their entrances,” Beckett quotes abruptly. “But who benefits from Annie’s exit?”

“Everyone!” Castle says, sounding surprised that he didn’t think of it earlier. “I guarantee you that opening night will be sold out.”

“Who has opening night been really important to?” Beckett digs the Times out of the trash, scans it again and reads aloud, “Sylvia Breedlove carries on bravely despite tragedy, with the grit and grandeur befitting the former Broadway legend.” Beckett shows Castle the grainy newspaper photo of Sylvia. “Mr. Fleming said Sylvia might be the one replaced by opening night...”

“What if that was the part Annie was trying out for? What if Sylvia heard about it, and followed her home after her singing telegram gig...”

“And then shot her in a fit of rage?”

He’s already out of his chair with her jacket in his hand to offer her. “I believe we have a theater date.”

__

Beckett is quiet as she and Castle exit the theater, leaving Sylvia for the uniforms to handle and the pandemonium of the theater behind. “Was it just me or did she seem to almost relish that scene?”

“Yeah. A little too _Sunset Boulevard_. All we needed in there was a spotlight and a camera....” He shudders. “She makes my mother seem sane.” 

She smiles at that, and briefly bumps her shoulder against his arm as they walk. 

Castle glances over at her, trying to read her expression. It turns pensive as they get a little distance on the way to her car. She finally says, “After everything, it still sometimes surprises me what people will kill over, what people are afraid of. To live in that much fear of being replaced....” 

“Not one that crops up for you, huh?”

She considers that. “No. I like my life. I wouldn’t want anyone else’s. And who would want my life?” Her voice takes on a teasing lilt. “Dealing with murderers and celebrity authors all day. Though I seem to remember that you nearly took a contract to write about a certain spy....”

He scoffs at that. “There are a few thousand Nikki Heat fans that would gladly fill your shoes. As to Secret Agent Man, I’m glad I turned it down. So unoriginal. I prefer the extraordinary... in a way that only yours truly could bring to ink - and to the big screen.” 

Beckett smiles a little. “Says a certain someone who hazed a young writer with a poker game over a muse...” 

Castle rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “Some things are worth it. Not murder worth it, but a lot of other things worth it.”

She lets that one go... for now. “Come on - I’ll drop you off at your loft on my way home and help you break the news to Martha.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s time to face the music.”


End file.
